


the villain inside me

by leafygreenturtle



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Blood and Violence, Body mutilation, Branding, Burning, Knife Use, No Smut, dark! rhys, evil! rhys, feyre is a prisoner, not for the weak of stomach, tamlin is a prisoner too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28123104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leafygreenturtle/pseuds/leafygreenturtle
Summary: prompt request for @HighLadySith: "God...looking at you up close is so surreal." The blade trails gently across his skin as the whumper speaks, the pristine edge never drawing blood, but implying the threat all the same. The whumper's voice is hushed, gravelly, intimate-almost sensual. "Every pore in your skin, the flecks of green in those blue eyes, your pretty little lashes fluttering as you refuse to look me in the eyes..."
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Tamlin
Comments: 14
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HighLadySith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighLadySith/gifts).



> Huge shout out to @HighLadySith for getting me hooked onto evil! Rhys! Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Also, just a note: This is not like my usual fics; it's not a feysand romance story, and there's no smut. It's just Rhys being a villain

Her heart pounded, her throat dry and panicked. 

She felt him before she heard him or saw him. Felt his darkness slam into the forest ahead of her, then cloaking over her senses until she was blind. Fear spiked through her. She couldn’t see anything, but she could feel him approaching. 

He approached with leisure, each of his footsteps making the earth below him tremble so much that she felt it beneath her own feet. 

“Really, Feyre? Is this the best you could do?” He clicked his tongue. “This is just disappointing.” 

Dread and panic speared into her as she felt herself frozen to the ground under bands of his magic. 

She still couldn’t see anything, so when his hand wrapped around her throat, she jolted. He squeezed, laughing as she thrashed and choked.

He was going to kill her. She was going to die in this darkness, alone and afraid. Each desperate thought was worse than the last as she felt her breath ripped from her, as his fingers closed tighter around her neck, violent, unyielding. He kept her like that, twitching like a fish on dry land, for what felt like forever. Just when she felt herself about to pass out, or die, he let her go. 

She doubled over, heaving, gasping for air. 

He chuckled. “Come here.” 

She was helpless. She could do nothing, go nowhere. Her feet moved, as if in a trance, until she was inches away from him. She could feel the heat of his body.

“I brought something for you,” he purred. Her stomach twisted when she saw the thick, silver band he was holding. A collar. His fingers traced the edge of her collarbone, and she was shaking as he put it on her. It was heavy on her neck, an uncomfortable weight.

“Say thank you for the gift,” he crooned.

“Thank you for the gift, High Lord.”

He tipped her chin up with two fingers, studying her. “You’re going to be so pretty when I’m done with you.”

Then, with a smirk, he grabbed her hand and winnowed her to the dungeons below the main palace. He strapped her to an ash table infused with faebane. Her body shirked in pain, trying to arch away from it, to no avail. He watched for a long moment, as if gorging himself on the sight of her. 

“God, looking at you up close is so surreal.” An small, tiny ash dagger with a cruel point appeared in his hand, and he trailed it gently over her face, outlining her cheeks, her lips. When he speaks, it’s in a lover’s whisper. “Every pore in your skin, the flecks of green in those blue eyes, your pretty little lashes fluttering as you refuse to look me in the eyes...”

“Please don’t-”

He took the dagger, and slipped it, blade-first, into her mouth. She had to hold it so delicately with her teeth and tongue so that it didn’t slip from her mouth’s grip and cut the inside of her mouth. When her lips closed over it, he pushed the small blade further in, all the way to the hilt, until the smooth leather hilt was pressed against her lips. The tip of the blade was kissing her throat. She could not even swallow in this position, she could barely breath. 

“Good,” he said, admiring his own work. “Now, let’s see.”

He took her hand and stabbed another knife straight through it. She screamed. The pain was blinding, dizzying, and unrelenting, and she whimpered as she felt blood flow. He had spiked her hand to the table with the blade, cutting through skin and bone and tendon. 

The scream had caused the knife in her mouth to shift. It was digging into her cheek now. She sobbed, her body quaking. 

“Pretty,” he said. “Very pretty. But we’re just getting started.” 

Drool spilled out of her mouth, making the knife even more slippery and precarious between her lips. If she let it fall, it would shred her throat to ribbons. 

When he brought the knife to her abdomen, she thrashed, biting on the blade in her mouth. He pinned her down with his magic. He took his time, carving into her flesh. It was only when he was finished that she saw what he had carved. 

“Look,” he said. 

She shook her head. She didn’t care, she didn’t want to see. She cried out as his magic gripped her head, turning it down, forcing her to look. 

It was the Night Court insignia. 

“Tamlin will like it, don’t you think?” 

His magic still gripped her, keeping her there so she couldn’t turn away from the sight of her own mutilated flesh. Her hand still had the knife through it, and any slight movement send searing hot pain shooting through her.

“It’ll heal,” he said casually, seeing where she had glanced. “But that just means I get to do it again.”

His magic finally released her, and she slumped back on the table.

He moved to her fingers on the hand he hadn’t spiked to the table with the dagger. Her dominant hand, the one she painted with. She trembled.

“Painter’s hands,” he said. “They’re always so pretty.”

He looked at her, and then as if realizing she couldn’t speak with the knife still in her mouth, he slid it out. Her jaw ached, but relief fluttered in her chest. Until his attention returned to her unmarred hand.

“Please don’t,” she said.

He held her pointer finger between two of his. “Is this what you value the most? Would you rather I cripple you? Should I make you choose?”

She trembled, shaking her head.

A dark smile grew on his face. He grabbed the handle of the knife that was still dug into her hand and twisted. She screamed. 

He laughed, and said, “Take it out.”

When she hesitated, she felt his magic wrap around her throat. Not squeezing yet, but just enough to make the threat clear. 

Shaking, she wrapped her hand around the hilt and braced herself. 

“Slowly,” he said. “Make it hurt. I’ll know if you did or not.”

Tears slipped free, and she pulled the blade out, inch by inch. She screamed as she felt it come free, and she was dizzy with pain by the time the time the bloody dagger lay on the table beside her. Blood flowed from her open wound, painting her whole red. 

Rhys’s eyes gleamed. His gaze turned to her other hand, and he held out the knife she’d just pulled out for her. 

“Pick a finger and cut it off.”

She shook her head, sobbing. “Please. Don’t make me.”

“I said,” he said, with terrifying calm. “Pick a finger and cut it off. If you make me do it instead, you’ll regret it.”

She felt bile rise in her throat as she took the knife from him and studied her unmarred hand. Her hand, her precious hand. She would never paint again. 

She brought the blade to her ring finger and sliced into the skin. She heard herself scream, felt her vision go spotty, but kept cutting. The knife clattered out of her hand. She looked at her hand, at the finger that was half cut off. 

She vomited onto the floor. 

Rhys made her finish it, made her continue after she’d vomited. She passed out afterwards. 

When she’d woke up, both her hands had been healed. The brand on her stomach was gone. Her entire body was pristine, her clothes restored, as if the last few hours had never happened. 

Rhys strode in, hands tucked into his pockets and grinned at her. “I have a surprise for you.”

She hadn’t said a word when he’d attached a chain to the collar around her neck. She hadn’t asked any questions when he’d led her for what seemed like forever down winding hallways and passages.

And now, she saw why he had seemed so pleased. 

Tamlin stood in the center of the room. Not visibly bound, though she had no doubt Rhys had him magically bound. Or had a hold on his mind. Or both. 

Rhys seemed utterly comfortable and relaxed as he strode for the throne, taking his seat, leading Feyre along. 

Tamlin watched, stone-faced as he’d been Under the Mountain, as Rhys tugged on the chain and Feyre stumbled over to him. He watched as Rhys ran a possessive hand over her midriff, then dragged it down, to her thighs. He knew Rhys did it only to get a rise out of him, and it was working. 

“I thought you could help Feyre,” Rhys said casually. “From one prisoner to another.”

He reached into the brazier next to his throne, and handed Tamlin the hot brand that had been sitting in it. Feyre trembled, realizing what he was intending, and started sobbing and begging. 

“Not again, not again,” she pleaded. He ignored her. 

“Brand her,” Rhys said. 

Tamlin stared at the poker, with the Night Court insignia on the end of it. He dragged his gaze up to Rhys, who was watching with cruel amusement. Then finally, he looked to Feyre, who was watching him with tears in her eyes.

Rhys released her chain, then shoved her forward, off the dais, towards Tamlin. 

Tamlin’s eyes shuttered. “Lay down,” he said. 

Silent tears rolled down her face, but she laid on her back on the floor. Slowly, Tamlin rolled her shirt up enough to expose her stomach. Smooth, unmarred skin. 

“You don’t want to make me wait,” Rhys warned.

Tamlin brought the hot iron down on her skin. She screamed, and tears slid down his own face, but he held his hands steady, and lifted the poker after a moment. 

The skin was blistering red, but the brand was clear. Marking her with the insignia of this infernal court. 

Rhys smiled. “Lovely. Now bring her here.” 

Tamlin realized he meant with the leash. He dropped the poker, hating the feel of the instrument of her torment, and picked up the leash. He led Feyre to her feet, then up the dais steps, to Rhysand’s throne. 

She whimpered in pain when Rhys touched the fresh brand on her stomach. “Perfect,” he said. 

Tamlin was shaking with barely suppressed rage and disgust. At Rhys, and at himself, what he’d been made to do. 

Rhys smiled, then glanced to him at last. He slid a proprietary hand over her waist, and pulled her onto his lap. Tamlin was still holding the end of the chain. 

“I’m going to enjoy playing with you both,” Rhys said.


	2. Chapter 2

Feyre had been summoned to the throne room. She had felt the tug on her mind, growing more and more insistent by the moment, and had traipsed down the halls a minute later.

It had been a command, there was no doubt about that. She had become his pet, his to summon whenever he wished. She knew he liked the unpredictability of it, keeping her on her toes. When would he call? She always had to wonder, always had to be ready. 

She turned the corner towards the direction of the tug. 

There was a revel in full swing. Courtiers and nobles littered the corridors outside the throne room, pouring out of the wide doors. She could hear the music and chatter coming from the large chamber where Rhys would no doubt be holding court again, lounging on his throne.

She had little doubt as to what her role would be. Evening entertainment once more, it seemed.

She was near the entrance when a broad, male hand grabbed her waist, twisting her to face him. He was tall, dark-haired, and stout faced.

He leered at her. “What’s the High Lord’s whore doing here unaccompanied?”

“She’s not unaccompanied,” a smooth, low voice said from behind her. The crowd hushed as Rhys locked eyes with the male, as they felt his power thrumming from him. A predator. That’s what Rhysand was.

“Do I need to remind you what happens to people who touch my belongings?” Rhys purred.

“She’s not yours,” the male said, paling a little but still defiant. “She’s a prisoner of war, and she was walking around unattended.”

Feyre tensed.

Rhys offered the ambassador a smile that promised violence. “Feyre darling, lift your shirt.”

Hands trembling, she obliged, sliding the fabric up enough to reveal the brand burned into her stomach, the one marking her as belonging to this territory. To its High Lord.

Rhys gripped the lord with his magic. The male blanched. When Rhys spoke next, his words were dark. Cold. “If you need reminding what this mark means, perhaps I can brand you too.”

The male was now rigid and white-faced. Fear tainted his scent. “Apologies, High Lord.”

Rhys turned to Feyre and smiled. “Or maybe Feyre can. Wouldn’t that be nice, darling?”

“Yes, High Lord.” The response came immediately, willingly.

Rhys gave the courtier a slow smile. “Well, skitter off.”

Then he swept her into the throne room and left the group of males behind. Her shoulders loosened a bit in relief. Until the revel truly started.

The entertainment, as expected, was her.

This time, Rhys shackled her wrists and ankles, and had her serve the guests with a heavy tray. With the chains, her movement was hindered, and Rhys would chide her, saying that she ought to be working faster, and if she couldn’t be hospitable to the guests, then perhaps she should be punished. 

She suspected Rhys had ordered courtiers to trip her, to pinch and prod at her, to jostle her and run into her so that she dropped the tray, so that she spilled the drinks and food all over herself and the floor. 

Rhys had just clicked his tongue in disappointment, even though he had orchestrated this whole thing, and ordered her to eat it all up off the floor. 

“Without your hands,” he’d added, when she made to clumsily pick up the fruit. 

When she was done, he made her continue serving for the rest of the night. 

Tamlin lay slumped in his chains against the wall. He didn’t even lift his gaze when she walked in.

“I don’t have much time,” she said by way of greeting. “And I don’t know how to let you out. I don’t know where he keeps they keys or—”

“Don’t bother. This cell is sealed by his magic. Only he can open it.”

“Oh.” She fought not to fall into despair. “What-what should we do?” She hated how small and afraid she sounded.

“Nothing,” he said, his voice gravelly and almost unrecognizable. “It’s over.”

“Tamlin—”

“It’s over for me,” he rasped. “He took everything. Everything.”

She shook her head. There had to be a way, had to be something—

The door creaked open. She tensed, but it was too late. There was nowhere to run or hide.

“Feyre,” Rhys said, raising a brow. “May I ask what you’re doing?”

She started trembling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t,” her lip quivered, “please don’t hurt me.”

He shushed her. “I’m just going to hurt you a little. So you learn, so we don’t have to go over this again. Now come with me.”

He led her to a dungeon similar to the one he’d held her in her first night here.

On the table was a rusty nail, a dirty rag, and a hammer. She started begging again. He stuffed the rag in her mouth to muffle her.

“Pick it up,” he said calmly. “Nail your hand to the table.”

Even with the gag in her mouth, her screams could be heard from the other end of the palace as she jammed that nail into her hand.

She vomited, and Rhys made her grab the hammer and drive it in.

Then he left her there, with her hand nailed to the table, for three days. He kept her awake and conscious the whole time, until she became delirious and half mad with agony.

This time, he didn’t heal her. He let her wrap her wound, but forbade the healers from actually healing the wound. When it finally closed, she had a scar, and she knew that was how he had wanted it. A reminder.

She never visited Tamlin again.

Today, she sought Rhys out.

It took her everything in her to hold his gaze, the weight and power in them, and not shy back. “I have an offer for you.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh?”

“You want eyes and ears in Spring. I’ll be them. I’ll report to you. Everything.”

He studied her, his face impassive and revealing nothing. Nothing besides the usual glittering amusement. “Playing with me is starting to bore you?”

She fought the urge to tense. That would make him think he had the upper hand, that he still scared her. So she forced a grin to her face, and said, “Are you growing soft, Rhys? Afraid to let me go? Don’t tell me you’ve become attached,” she purred.

He traced a knuckle down her cheek, and this time she couldn’t fight back the shudder. “You are my favorite toy,” he whispered.

He lingered for a moment, with his hand on her cheek, then straightened. “And what is your stake in all of this? Finally grown tired of your lover?” He grinned. “Or has he grown tired of you?”

Even with everything that had happened between her and Tamlin, she stiffened. “I just know what’s in my best interest.”

“Do you?” His teeth flashed.

She startled a bit. “What?”

“Do you know what’s in your best interest? If you did, you wouldn’t tempt me like this.”

“I don’t—”

“You’re so perfect, so beautiful when you’re in pain. The way you scream for me, the way your body turns red for me and writhes, the way you beg and plead for me to stop,” his breathing grew uneven, “You’re magnificent. And you do it on purpose, always trying to tempt me.” He seemed to almost be talking to himself now. “Because you know how much I love seeing you in pain, don’t you?”

She shook her head. “N-No, I don’t—”

His eyes hardened as they fell on her.

She was unprepared when he gripped her mind. Forced her to relax as he held her in his arms, a lovers touch. Then tipped her mouth open, and poured a sweet tasting liquid in.

Only when she had swallowed all of it did he release his grip on her mind.

And then she felt the burning. It felt as if every inch of her skin was on fire. She felt hot and suffocated, as if she being burned alive inside the prison of her own skin. She choked, her hands clawing at her neck.

He smiled, utterly pleased by the display. Then he lifted a finger and it stopped. All of it.

She slumped against the wall and panted. When she could bring herself to speak, she croaked, “What was that? What did you give me?”

“Insurance,” he purred. Then his hand gripped her throat, and he brushed a thumb over where her pulse fluttered. “In case you get ideas and don’t deliver. This poison will be in your body for the rest of your life. As long as you continue to please me, it will remain harmless. If you ever decide to be foolish and test me, I might just accidentally let it flow to your heart. They say it’s a slow death, that once started, can never be stopped.”

He brushed a possessive hand over her waist, squeezing. “We wouldn’t want that.”

She stared at him with wide eyes, unable to hide the fear, the anxiety. What had she gotten herself into?  
“Yes, High Lord,” she breathed. When he didn’t say anything, she made to leave, but he gripped her arm. Gripped it hard enough to hurt. She winced.

He leaned in to whisper into her ear, “I want you to know, I would never waste your body if you died. I would keep you perfectly preserved, like a porcelain doll, in this court forever. Your soul will never find rest, your body will never be buried or burned. Even in death, you will be mine to play with.”

Then he let her go, and left the room without another word.

The next morning, Rhys was holding court again. He’d summoned her and she was kneeling at the foot of the dais now.

“You were once a huntress,” he said mildly. “I thought it would be a nice change of pace to offer you the role of the hunted.”

This was no choice at all and everyone knew it.

“Fine,” she said. “What are the rules?”

“There are no rules,” he said, a smile spreading across his lips. “Whoever brings you to me first will receive a prize, to be decided later.”

“If there are no rules, then I can have weapons?”

“Of course,” he said magnanimously. “I am nothing if not fair.”

True to his word, Rhys had her fit into a shirt and trousers and comfortable shoes, and he armed her with a bow and arrows, and upon her request, a bandolier of knives.

Then he released her into the forest, giving her a mocking bow, and a moment later, she heard the sounds of the courtiers spilling out, each of them out to hunt her.

 _There are no rules._ Belatedly, she realized she wasn’t sure if they were allowed to kill her.

She took the first step and immediately felt something off. Her head was spinning, her vision blurring.

The poison. 

She swore. He had never intended for her to win, had never intended on even giving her a fair shot. Insurance, he had said. And this was a reminder of that.

Her limbs were utterly useless now. She collapsed to the mossy ground and barely managed to slump against a tree.

Sweat broke out on her forehead, her neck, and she closed her eyes. She felt too weak and sick to even stand. Maybe he would kill her. Keep her body as a doll, as he’d said. She thought of how she’d be used as a statue, as an ornament for visitors who came to this depraved court to stare at in horror of the male who ruled over this court.

When she heard yelling and whooping, she knew it was over. A pair of arms lifted her, carrying her, and then she blacked out.

When she came to, her arms and legs were bound. She was wearing a thin shift and pants, and she shivered in them.

Rhys sauntered down the dais steps to where she laid bound in front of the throne.

“Looks like you lost,” he smiled.

She bit back the retort on her tongue. The poison had retreated, it seemed. She no longer felt that all-pervading sickness.

Rhys drawled, “I think you know this next part. After all, you’re a huntress. Surely, you know what we do with animals after we hunt them.”

Slowly, her gaze followed his to the roaring fire on the far side of the room. It was massive, towering. Rhys glanced at two guards, and they brought a thick wooden spit forward.

Her heart thundered as they grabbed her wrists roughly and wordlessly tied them to it. They did her legs next, and her body locked up in fear as she felt them lift the spit and her with it.

They would burn her alive. She writhed. “Please.”

“Oh, don’t worry, it won’t kill you. Where would be the fun in that?”

When they lowered her over the flames, she sobbed. They had her turned onto her back. The first few seconds were no more unpleasant than touching metal outside on a hot summer day. But then when she didn’t move, when her skin was forced to remain mere inches away from the fire, the intensity grew. Her skin blistered and bubbled.

She screamed.

Distantly, she heard Rhys laugh. Heard him urge everyone to enjoy the refreshments and the show.

She thought her skin was so burnt by now it must be black. And just when as that thought materialized, the spit was turned.

She felt momentary relief on her back, but then her sides started turning red, her skin blazing. She was shrieking endlessly now, her shouts of pain an endless sound in the throne room.

They turned her over and over until her entire body was burnt and it was so painful she couldn’t even pass out, couldn’t even hope for that bit of relief. The pain was fresh, searing, keeping her senses hypervigilant.

The fear of the flames touching her if she squirmed too much kept her alert and awake.

Through the haze of her pain, she heard Rhys’s voice speak.

_Lower._

She didn’t register it at first, didn’t know what it meant.

Then she felt herself being lowered on the spit, closer to the flames. If she so much as breathed too deeply, the flames would touch her.

He kept here over the fire for the rest of the night, being turned every now and then.

When at last the revel drew to a close in the late hours of the night and one by one the courtiers all trickled out and Rhys dismissed the guards, and they were alone, he walked over to where she was whimpering over the flames.

A snap of his fingers and the fire was doused, and she sobbed in relief. But then he lowered her to the ground, and she screamed as he touched the burnt, raw flesh.

He ignored her cries of pain as he untied the rope at her feet and wrists, and when he was done, he ran a palm over her waist, squeezing roughly.

She grit her teeth, hissing at the pain.

“Did you enjoy the game?” he asked. 

Disbelief rocked through her, disbelief that he could ask such a question. But she knew what she had to answer. She forced herself to smile, bright and lovely. “Yes, High Lord.”

“Good,” he said, and his hand stroked higher, along her ribs. “If you enjoyed it, then thank me.”

Her blood buzzed in her veins. She felt wild and unsteady. She had to focus to say something she wouldn’t regret. “Thank you, High Lord.”

He smiled and dropped his hand. “Run along now. And since you enjoyed tonight so much, I think we can leave the burns, don’t you? No need for a healer.”

She felt tears threaten, and she forced them down. “Yes, High Lord. Of course.”

“Good,” he whispered again.

She lay in bed a while later and thought of what she’d promised him.

I’ll be your eyes and ears.

She would.

The next day, when she walked into the throne room, she saw the courtier from the revel nailed to the wall.

He was dead, his limbs spread unnaturally wide and a permanent expression of agony and terror painted onto his face. On his naked torso was the same Night Court brand that was marked onto her own skin. 

She would not end up like him. She would not. She thought of what he’d said about keeping her body preserved as a porcelain doll.

“Hello, Feyre darling,” Rhys purred from the throne.

She smiled, broad and lovely and charming. “Hello High Lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly don't know where I'm going with this story but perhaps we will see feyre in the spring court in the next chapter

**Author's Note:**

> Send me prompts at my tumblr @rhysandswhore, or just drop in to say hi!


End file.
